How to Tell a Lie
by LovelyLivy
Summary: 'Floats past lips like fine smoke, sucked back down the instant you breathe. It fills airless lungs bitterly, imbedding itself into tender tissue. Rolling off tongue like a compliment, burning like an insult. If you don't watch out, the fire can consume.'
1. The Birth of a Concept

**Umm...so...yeah...this is going to be totally reposted as only a Jibbs series of one-shot-ish things; but all in chronological order. Eventually, we'll get to Paris, then on to Kill Ari Part One, then to Internal Affairs, Dog Tags, Judgement Day. Just based around the lies these two have told. My original idea was kind of a fail. So, anyway, here it is! I have no Beta, but please review! :)**

**I don't own NCIS. **

* * *

Falling leaves cluster on the gray pavement like clouds in a blue sky, in a sort of twisted way. The smell of autumn and its musk had permeated her nostrils with every deep breath she took. Her lungs had burned with the exhilaration she felt, her small form being thrust into the air like it was.

With every swing she defied gravity, and the steady hand of her father guided her into independence. Back. Forth. He allowed her to do it by herself after a little while, green eyes soft and nostalgic.

It's her first memory. Clean and crisp like the air. As an adult, she clung to the resemblance of childhood. To the absolute of it.

The memory is bittersweet, because it's likely her only memory of that time of innocence in that sort of way. She was nine years old, then.

This is Jenny's only memory, before her mother died.

* * *

"Leroy, you have to stop bawling like a damn baby."

Harsh words rolled off a sharp tongue. The boy could smell the alcohol and aftershave that clung to his father, and his nose crinkled at it.

Firm hands gripped small shoulders; clenching, harming. The boy let out a wince.

He tried not to cry, he really did. Because, in his mind, men did not cry, and he certainly wanted to be a man. He knew it would please his father.

Today was the day he knew it mattered the most, because now his father would not be able to think straight. This day marked the death of his mother.

The eleven year old grounded his teeth, pained, and still tried so hard to stop the pathetic whimpering that threatened to escape him every time he faced the reality of his father's abusive actions and the emptiness of his mother's death. He tried to shut himself off, to not feel.

Because that's what men did.

Sometimes, though, you don't have control over your actions. There isn't always a choice. Sometimes, you just have face the reality.

The man's fingers began to make dark red markings on the pale skin, and carbon copy eyes look up into his own.

He knew his father blamed him, because _he _was the one who'd wanted to go to the park that night. _He_ was the one who had watched sweet Marie be stabbed to death while he'd cowered behind a park bench. Like a little boy.

"I'm sorry," the eleven year old whispered, eyes on the hard frown upon his father's face.

The man shakes the boy hard, and it takes the boy a moment to be able to see straight. He's then dizzy, gasping for air, and terribly dizzy, but he didn't falter. Just waited for an answer.

"Never say you're sorry, Leroy Jethro. Ever. You hear me, dammit?"

A breath of rancid alcohol and hot air flows across his face. He gags, and then quivers.

"Yes, sir."

The man suddenly stepped back from his son, eyes distant, a strange expression on his face.

He took a swig of the beer on the bar stool to the right and let out a heavy sigh.

He slurred his words, now.

"You're mother deserved what she got. She was a bitch, who thought she could leave me here all alone in this world." The father scoffed, then threw the glass bottle harshly against the left wall, damaging the plaster. Shattering things.

"Clean this up," he muttered, walking from the room.

A young Leroy Jethro Gibbs said nothing as he stared at the broken glass littering the concrete floor. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he vaguely remembered thinking that his father was a crook and a liar and he never wanted to be like him again.


	2. The Development of Skill

"And then, James, like, asked me if I wanted a drink!"

The bubbly blond cheerleaders sitting across from the redhead won't stop recounting their latest conquests at finding a 'man'. Her green eyes narrow, amused, and she tries to hold back chuckles at the sheer arrogance of it all.

Did the girls realize what they were giving up?

Yet, Jenny says nothing. This is high school, a new start, and the first time anyone besides the local librarian acknowledges her. Her father hadn't even noticed she'd cut her hair.

Jenny is by no means a strange girl, and is well liked by many classmates. She's fairly attractive, and not too much of a book worm. She enjoys debate, and science.

But she also enjoys being alone.

Noemi suggested she make some new female companions, and so she had her mind set that she was. The only real issue with the whole situation was tolerating girls like this.

Ignorant girls.

"So...Jenny, is it?"

She smiles and nods, emerald orbs welcoming. The blonde flips her hair in a very girlish manner, smacking her strawberry scented bubble gum.

"Are you a..._virgin?"_

It's said like a dirty word, a pariah, and the redhead knows this is the million dollar question. Girls at this school pride themselves on looks, boyfriends, and sexual reputations.

This is as close as she'll ever come to using her smarts in this childish setting.

A niggling thought irks her a bit that maybe she should just tell the truth, because of course she's never lied this way before. She may not be any good at it.

She read once that it's like a skill, and takes practice.

She knows she needs to start now if she'll ever be half way decent.

Besides, it's just a little lie.

"No, not at all."

A white grin, sparkling green eyes. This is met by equally as downright vivacious looks.

The niggling thought that she's never even held a boy's hand growls a little at this.

* * *

"You want a joint?"

"No, Kath, I don't."

Light brown eyes, like a soft oak, travel down his body to stare at his sneakers, and he watches the girl take a long drag from the nasty contraption.

He knows those lips are soft though, the ones that wrap around the paper. Oh, how he knows. They're pink, like cotton candy. Taste like them too, when she's not inhaling ash.

She shuffles her feet, and he studies her quietly.

"Jet, why are you acting so weird lately?"

The question is soft, so he can't help but be gentle, even though he learned long ago that gentle was for the weak. She's fragile, though, so he allows it.

Everyone in school knows that her step father does things to her.

His sweet, first love.

"Kath...nothing is going on. I don't know what you're talking about."

She looks up, and her eyelashes are suddenly moist. He doesn't know what to say.

He never has. Never will.

"Jethro...there's something I have to tell you."

He waits, and she continues, but he can barely hear her. Those pink lips whisper the words so soft, as if she wants no one to hear. He hears, somehow. He hears so clearly.

"I'm pregnant," she murmurs distantly, taking another long drag from that terrible cigarette.

"What?" She flinches, because now it sounds like they're really speaking to one another, and not just whispering to the wind. His voice is sharp, now. A slightly wild look in those blue eyes.

"Jet, you heard me. Don't think that," she breathes shallowly, " that just because of this you are gonna have to change anything. I already have a friend who's going help me get rid of it. Says she has some herbs that'll take care of it right away."

His head pounds, and it's hard to breathe. And he doesn't know why.

Was that...love he felt? For her, for it? No...because all of that is demolished as it stands.

"I hate you."

His nostrils flare, the words are bitter. His blue eyes are like stones.

He turns and walks away, leaving Katherine Johnston staring after his form, a detached look upon her face proof enough that things have ended. He knows he's told a lie, and he knows he's like his old man.

Such a big lie he's told.


End file.
